


Close

by leepala



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-01-25 13:56:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21357355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leepala/pseuds/leepala
Summary: Aziraphale kisses Crowley’s knee as he gives him a moment to breathe through it, and it’s a wondrous sight to behold. Crowley’s eyes are screwed tight, every lean muscle of his body shiver-tense as he struggles to bring himself under control
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 190





	Close

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gingerhaole](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingerhaole/gifts).

“Cloh-... nnh,” Crowley groans, which is not a word at all. As such, Aziraphale doesn’t slack the rhythm set by his fist, slick-wet sounds counterpoint to the sharp staccato of Crowley’s breathing. Aziraphale’s eyes are on Crowley’s face rather than the desperately leaking cock in his hand, watching the way his gaze slips in and out of focus. Crowley can’t stay still even though he’s silk-tied to the bedposts, and his writhing has more serpent than human in it.

_ Absolutely beautiful _ , Aziraphale thinks to himself. He’d voice the thought were there anyone actively listening to hear it, but he’s fairly sure Crowley has dropped hearing in favor of other senses at the moment.

Aziraphale’s smile is much softer than the twist of his fingers inside of Crowley, two fingertips stroking firm against his prostate as his thumb presses against the soft stretch of skin behind his balls, and  _ this _ certainly brings Crowley’s attention back from the aether. “Close!” he yelps, trying to pull his cock free from Aziraphale’s relentless fist, which only serves to drive his fingers deeper. “Close clohh...  _ fuck _ ,” the bedposts rattle as Crowley pulls at his bonds, Aziraphale taking a few torturous seconds before complying and releasing his hold, stilling his fingers inside.

Aziraphale kisses Crowley’s knee as he gives him a moment to breathe through it, and it’s a wondrous sight to behold. Crowley’s eyes are screwed tight, every lean muscle of his body shiver-tense as he struggles to bring himself under control, push away from the knife edge of orgasm he tred too close to. Aziraphale has brought him to that threshold a half dozen times this afternoon, but it’s up to Crowley to make the call and he keeps dancing closer and closer to the point of no return, too lost in the sub-haze of chemicals and commands thrumming in his veins.

Aziraphale truly does wonder if he’s overdone it this time, too far past the line. Crowley’s breath is held, his brows knotted delicately with intense focus, and Aziraphale doesn’t dare move his hand. Another long moment and Crowley exhales, goes a bit slack with a gravel-rough murmur of “ _ Fuck _ .”

“Very good,” Aziraphale says, praise loosening the taut lines of Crowley’s chest. Aziraphale kisses his knee again, firmer. “You’re ever so good for me, my love.” Gently, Aziraphale withdraws his fingers to push them back in again, pulling a low keen from Crowley. He takes hold of Crowley’s cock again, presses his thumb against the wet slit of it.

Crowley shivers, leans his head back, though red curls are plastered with sweat to his forehead and his neck. “Angel, please,” he croaks, ankles pulling against their bonds. Whether he’s aiming to wrap his legs around Aziraphale’s shoulders or try and push his thighs closed is anyone’s guess, as he can do nothing of the sort. Aziraphale kisses higher, on the milk-soft skin inside his thigh, feels the tremor of muscle beneath his lips. 

“Please what, dearheart?” Aziraphale says into his skin, dragging his lips gentle to feel Crowley shake against him. It’s a distraction - there’s no reply, though Aziraphale didn’t expect one. He slides his finger home again as he runs his mouth up the length of Crowley’s cock, breath warm.

Crowley groans out as Aziraphale takes him into his mouth, re-sets his pace again from a slow build. WIth Crowley this close to the edge it doesn’t take much, though, as Aziraphale’s tongue presses into the slit of his cockhead synced with a well-placed knuckle brush inside of him. “Close,” he says again, though without the same conviction as a few minutes ago. 

Which will simply not do, of course. Aziraphale ignores the half-hearted warning, swallowing Crowley deep enough to press his nose into the thatch of red curl at the base of his cock. Crowley groans with it, an aborted movement to his hips. Aziraphale is  _ good _ at this, puts all his considerable skill to task working his throat around the head of his cock, his free hand occupied with pulling gently at his wrung-taut balls.

“ _ Close _ ,” he says again, though its still utterly unheeded. “Azhh-” a shiver pulls up from his spine, desperate sound cracking in his throat as his hips shift pointlessly. Aziraphale only pulls up to swallow him down again, draws a frantic sort of cry from Crowley. “Close  _ close, _ please-” Aziraphale pulls his mouth free, though hands are still full occupied and haven’t slowed. He’s watching Crowley’s face, carefully.

“I can’t-... May I-” Crowley attempts valiantly, and Aziraphale looks pleased. He twists the hand buried inside of Crowley, pads of his fingers rubbing punish-pleasure circles against his prostate.

“No,” Aziraphale says, clear as a bell.

Crowley’s cry is guttural, and Aziraphale’s tempted to take him back in his mouth but can’t tear his eyes away. It’s a battle of will - the must-need of his body fighting the iron determination of his obedience. Aziraphale resumes pumping his fist up the purple-flush of his cock, once, twice more.

His beautiful Crowley. More desperate to please than he is to orgasm. Astonishing.

“You may come.”

The wave of relief as he crests is almost palpable, and Aziraphale feels like he could nearly orgasm just by proxy. It’s lovely - every long angle of Crowley’s body strained like a plucked bowstring. Something inside the headboard cracks, though it manages to hold as he works through it, coming hard enough to splatter up to his chest. Aziraphale wrings him dry, keeps working him over until just past the threshold of oversensitivity, pleasure-cry shifting back into deliciously desperate for just a moment.

The bedroom shuffles into silence, though Crowley’s breathing is still sharp and rough. Aziraphale vanishes the bonds with a thought, crawls up the bed to gather Crowley into his arms. He pets at Crowley’s sweat-wrung curls, more than happy to let Crowley coil all available limbs around him.

“You are so, so good for me, my darling,” Aziraphale says into his hair, feels Crowley grin against his chest. He burrows in further, pulling a chuckle from Aziraphale as he gives his shoulders a squeeze. “Come now, I’ll draw you a bath and make us some tea.”

Crowley grouses a sound of protest. “No bath,” he says muffled, face pressed into Aziraphale’s chest. “Only cuddle.”

Aziraphale laughs. “ _ Yes _ bath,” which draws another wordless grumble, “But I suppose we’re in no hurry.”


End file.
